


Memories That Remain

by bananasandroses (achuislemochroi)



Series: Whofic [62]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, F/M, Late Night Conversations, Love Confessions, Overthinking, Season/Series 02, Tenth Doctor Era, To Days To Come, fluff (sorta)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 13:58:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8211050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achuislemochroi/pseuds/bananasandroses
Summary: Because you can bet what he told Donna is only one version of events ...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set during Season Two, this is the story the Doctor recounts to Donna in _I Can Still Recall_.

They’re lying on Rose’s bed, her head on his chest and his arms around her – normal for them at this stage and still more-or-less platonic, even though others (Rose’s mother comes to mind) would have a different view if they were ever to see it – chatting about everything and nothing at all. Rose seems worn out, though, and although she’s trying to stop herself falling asleep for his sake, she’s fast losing that struggle.

“Don’t fight it, Rose. Your body needs sleep.”

His tone is gentle and tender, and he strokes her hair while he speaks; she mumbles something incoherent against his chest before conceding defeat and soon her breathing is slower and more rhythmic and it’s clear even to him, grand master in the art of being oblivious to the obvious he is, that she’s asleep.

He thinks moving her enough to pull up the covers from beneath them will wake her, and he doesn’t want to do that; instead he moves his arm from beneath her and goes to fetch the blanket they keep in here. Locating it, he drapes it over her to keep her warm before sinking back down beside her on the bed. He wants to collect her back up into his arms as he’s missing the physical contact with her already, but doesn’t dare as she’s exhausted and needs her sleep.

Stretching his long limbs out on the bed, he makes himself comfortable for the long-haul since he has no intention of leaving Rose’s side unless he must. Then the need for physical contact with Rose overrides his common sense; he shifts enough that he can move her back into his arms, taking the opportunity at the same time to smooth down a recalcitrant lock or two of her hair. With her in his arms again he can relax a little for a while; he forces down the thoughts of how close he had come yet again to losing the effervescent human he loved and needed so much. She was here, she was safe, and she was fine. At that last thought, he sighs; his arms tighten around her a little. She moves against him and he freezes.

“Rose?”

No answer – of course there isn’t, he tells himself; she’s _asleep_ – from Rose, and he relaxes again. But he is in the mood for talking and, it would seem, in the mood for confessing what he has tried and failed innumerable times before to tell her. Yet, despite this, he knows he will never get the words out when she is awake; he is too scared of her reaction. Now, when she cannot have a bad reaction to his having feelings for her and demand he takes her home, might be the best chance he’ll get.

He hates himself for being too much of a coward to tell her properly. But this way is better than nothing, no?

He takes a deep breath, caresses the side of her face that isn’t lying against his chest and tells himself that everything between them will still be all right once he has said it.

He hopes. There is little he will not do or say to keep her with him – he is possessive of her in that way, he has found from experience – but somehow this last line is the most difficult of all for him to cross.

“Rose, I — I — oh, what’s the use? You’re asleep, anyway; it is bad enough I can’t say this to you when you’re awake. But ... but if you feel for me – and I can’t say how much I hope you do – how I feel about you, then the words aren’t necessary. If you _don’t_ , then nothing I say will make the blindest bit of difference. It’s not perfect, I know it’s not perfect; but even I have faults, Rose. Not that you’ll ever find me admitting that, out loud, where you or anybody else can hear me.”

He is babbling, and he knows it; if he didn’t have Rose in his arms he’d be getting out of here before he speaks too loudly and wakes her. He well knows what he should do but right now he’s so content he has no intention of doing anything of the sort. But if she wakes up —

She stirs again, and he falls silent, panicking she has heard him tell her he is in love with her. She says nothing, which makes him feel less nervous, but wriggles closer to him in a way that – if she keeps it up – will make his body react to hers in ways inappropriate for the situation. That is another reason he is so nervous about telling her anything.

The thought having crossed his mind, he feels restless; something stirs inside him and holding Rose in his arms won’t be enough for him for too much longer. Even if he cannot say the words that would change everything between them for ever, there’s nothing stopping him feeling the emotions that course through him every time he touches or looks at or thinks about her.

The restlessness gives way to a giddy recklessness and, although he knows it’s a bad idea for him to kiss her, for him the thought is the father to the deed and he shifts her in his arms until he can brush the lightest of kisses on her cheeks. He lingers a little longer at her forehead, putting a little more pressure behind the kiss; he would like nothing more than to kiss her properly but he dares not; when he kisses her – and he will, he knows he will, it’s only a matter of time now – he wants her to be as invested in it as he is.

When he himself yawns, he realises that watching Rose asleep has been more soporific than he had expected. He does not need as much sleep as humans; that doesn’t mean he is never tired. Various things are making him far more tired than usual and he decides that taking a nap will not hurt. She is lying all over him anyway, so his decision is a _fait accompli_ ; no point in moving if all he will achieve is waking her, is there?

When he is in the right frame of mind, sleep comes easy to him; today is one of those days and although he doesn’t know whether it’s Rose being in his arms that makes the difference, he is inclined to think so. He shifts in the bed, changing his position for comfort. He is well over half way to joining Rose in sleep when she burrows in close to him, clinging to his shirt, and the small part of him still awake wonders if she heard him after all.

He tries to speak and end the pretence that Rose is nothing but his best friend by saying those three precious words he is almost certain she wants to hear.

“Rose, I ... I —”

He fails to complete the sentence; his last coherent thought, just before he falls from wakefulness into sleep with alien suddenness, is as full of Rose as ever.

Oh, she _knows_.


End file.
